ime. In all the weeks and weeks she
had never had a caller, except, the other day, a doctor and a nurse, who
had taken away most of her money and left her this little clamorous
youth, whose victim she was as he was hers.

To-night she was desperately lonely. Even the baby's eternal demands and
uproars were hushed in sleep. She felt strong enough now to go out into
the wonderful air of the city; the breeze was as soft and moonseeped as
the blithe night wind that blew across the meadows at home.

The crowds went by the window and teased her like a circus parade
marching past a school.

But she could not go to circuses--she had no money. All she had was a
nameless, restless baby.

She grew frantically lonely. She went almost out of her head from her
solitude, the jail-like loneliness, with no one to talk to except her
little fellow-prisoner who could not talk.

Her homesick heart ran back to the home life she was exiled from. She
was thinking of the village. It was prayer-meeting night, and the moon
would wait outside the church like Mary's white-fleeced lamb till the
service was over, and then it would follow the couples home, gamboling
after them when they walked, and, when they paused, waiting patiently
about.

The moon was a lone white lamb on a shadowy hill all spotted with
daisies. Everything in the world was beautiful except her fate, her
prison, her poverty, and her loneliness.

If only she could go down from this dungeon into the streets! If only
she had some clothes to wear and knew somebody who would take her
somewhere where there was light and music! It was not much to ask.
Hundreds of thousands of girls were having fun in the theaters and the
restaurants and the streets. Hundreds of thousands of fellows were
taking their best girls places.

If only Webster Edie would come and take her out for a walk! She had
been his best girl, and he had been her fellow. Why must he send her
here, alone? It was his duty to be with her, now of all times. A woman
had a right to a little petting, now of all times. She had written him
so yesterday, begging him to come to her at any cost. But her letter
must have crossed his letter, and in that he said that he could not get
away and could not send her any money for at least another week, and
then not much.

She was doomed to loneliness--indefinitely. If only some one would come
in and talk to her! The landlady never came except about the bill. The
little slattern who b